


You Are Not Your Own

by demeritus



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demeritus/pseuds/demeritus
Summary: An intimate look at the quest for the Holy Grail, and what comes after.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	You Are Not Your Own

A low fire burned under a moonless sky. Lancelot had been kindling it since nightfall, when Bors and Percival had gone to rest and Galahad had gone to pray. They were reaching the end, Galahad said. He could feel it somehow. Lancelot planned to depart from the trio when morning came, to seek Gawain, his more regular companion. As the fire crackled, memories from the past months clouded his mind, so that he stared absently into the flames and a familiar despair filled his chest, tightening his muscles and making him realize how exhausted he really was

It must have been hours since Lancelot had been left alone, though he could not tell exactly, when Galahad emerged from his woodland solitude and sat near the fire to warm himself. His presence did not rouse Lancelot, but neither did he realize Lancelot was far away in thought.

“You’re still awake,” Galahad said. His voice was low and quiet, to match his gaunt face. He would have resembled a hermit were it not for his youth, or a pauper were it not for his long hair.

  
“Father? Are you alright?” Galahad raised his voice a bit.

Lancelot’s gaze broke with the fire and his posture tightened as he instinctually went for his weapon, though he wore none at his side. His manner was almost as pitiful as his son's, but with the additions of age and years of battle behind him. He found Galahad's eyes with his own, which relaxed him. After holding eye contact for a few seconds, Lancelot looked away. From his perspective, the flames between them lit Galahad as well as the rays of the sun - his long, yellow hair was like a veil, and his eyes (always shining, regardless) were like those of an angel; grey, but as bright as a star. There had always been a light behind those eyes that Lancelot envied.

  
“We’re almost done,” Lancelot said. “Can you believe that?”

Galahad looked at the sky as if it would help him with his reply. It was not as much a relief as he wished it to be. For what he was meant to believe, he was days away from achieving his destiny. After seventeen years of piety, isolation, training, and duty, one sacred object stood in the near distance. Recent nights had become increasingly sleepless as the words of the nuns and the praises of the court tortured him. Faultless, pure, and virgin repeated in his mind like a prayer; except he knew no matter how many times he thought it, no matter how he tried to make it his reality, it would never be true. Everyone expected him to be an angel given human form, and always assumed as much of him. At the priory, he hid his fear through recitations and constant prayer, only allowing his pain and anger escape when he trained in combat. At King Arthur’s court, he made himself silent and statuesque, speaking only when necessary and spending as much time as he could in the chapel. He knew it did nothing to endear him to the other knights, who thought him snobbish. Friends would only tempt him more, he thought; and those occasions when he did tarry with Percival or any of the others, the camaraderie and joy he felt was quickly eclipsed by anxiety and guilt. Any picnic with Percival or dinner listening to Gawain’s stories meant another trip to the confessional and another vigil of Ave Marias. The beginning of the quest for the Holy Grail would have been a relief, if it didn’t mean he was running toward something he did not deserve.

“I can believe now is the culmination of my life’s work,” Galahad said, blankly, out of habit.

“Of course,” Lancelot said, nodding and smiling. “A prophecy fulfilled is cause for celebration, though, right?”

“Can you honestly tell me you have the energy to celebrate...after all this? Do you think I do?”

“I suppose. I thought you would be happy, though. Or perhaps sad to let go of your old life.”

“I can feel however I like. It does not change the outcome,” Galahad said. “You, however, seem strange right now. Is something bothering you?”

“I have met a dozen priests on this quest, and none have failed to make me certain of my fate. I am a wretched sinner. You know this. And though I have repented, it is not enough. I am not fit to look upon the grail, even at a distance. As for your fate, it has been written since Christ himself walked the earth, and I would not dare hinder you from what is yours by right. I cannot be with you when you reach your destination, and I fear this is the last we will see of each other. I will say my peace to you, though I know it means nothing.”

Galahad met Lancelot’s eyes. They matched his own in color, but somehow they seemed dull even amidst the fire. His father had been the closest thing he had to a confidant in Camelot - save the Bishop - and the kindness and light in Lancelot’s expressions always gave him hope when they met. The kindness remained, but the light in his father’s eyes was gone.

“I have been certain of one thing during my short life;” Galahad said, summoning every bit of positivity he had. “You may be right about the grail, that it requires perfection. As for any normal man, though, Our Lord forgives all if a sinner is truly contrite. If that were not true, there would be no confession, for all would be damned from their first mistake. Your soul may be damaged, father, but the light of heaven will repair it when the day comes. For what you have done for Camelot, for what you have done for me, you deserve to live in paradise as much as I do.”  
Lancelot smiled.

“I have done nothing to garner so much praise, my son. My faith is not as strong as yours to assure me of anything but my sincerity in contrition. I live not for the reward I may find at the end of it all, but to honor those I care about, whose lives i have taken oaths to protect. You are one of those, though you have never needed my help and do not need it now. Though we have not known each other long, I have loved you like any child I might have raised from birth. I only regret that my words and actions could never equal what you deserve.”

“If this truly is the last time we see each other, I would like to tell you something as well. You know I have never liked the way people speak of me, and I thank you for taking care not to use certain words. You still overestimate me, though, the same as anyone. Perhaps it is because I am your son, but had you known me longer, you would know my faults more clearly. My soul is flawed as well, and my greatest fear is to reach the precipice of the Holy Grail’s location. What if I do not meet its standards? They say I am as sinless as Christ himself, but countless confessions mark how untrue it is. We have led different lives, but we are one and the same; sinners at God’s mercy. I know that my assurance to you applies to me as well, but I fear the inbetween. If I am so imperfect, I will not be allowed to witness the Grail’s mysteries as was expected of me. If I live, I will return to Camelot a disgrace. I will live in shame for all my days and my purpose will be spent. God meant to bless me with this purpose, but I, in my failure, have made it a curse.”

“I will not reply as any stranger or acquaintance would. I owe you my honesty, and that I will give. You may be as human as I, but your virtue far exceeds mine. Every holy emissary I meet assures me of your greatness. You, Bors, and Percival will do as they believe. And if God has any sense in his creation, you are exactly the person you are supposed to be. I cannot assure you of the outcome, for the mysteries of the grail will always be hidden from me, but I know you should never be ashamed as long as you live. If you do return to Camelot it is because that is what is meant to be. It will be a good thing, I am certain. Knights and servants and squires will gossip as they do, but that should not matter; you have the strength to live well despite what anyone says. If you return to Camelot, you will go on to even greater things, and you will have so many by your side in whatever comes. Percival, Bors, Gawain, Bedivere, the King and Queen, and me, if you will allow it. To be honest, I would love to have more time on this earth with my son, God willing. Whatever happens, do not let it dishearten you. I would hate to see your spark extinguished, when your will is so great.”

Galahad had been away from his father for so long, and Lancelot being one of few to have ever spoken so openly to him, he was not used to hearing such things.

He remained silent for a long time, but tears streamed down his face. He looked down in shame and waited for his tears to cease before he even tried to reply.

“If I had met you earlier, father, I believe both our lives would have been all the better for it. We live in despair, and though it has hindered us, let it hinder you no more. I might not know who I truly am, what I am truly worthy of, but I know where I will always stand with you. My gratitude will never reach the heights I should like them to, but please, always remember I have been glad to know you, and call you my father.”

Lancelot rose, pausing as the blood rushed to his head and his vision went blurry. He offered a hand to Galahad and when both stood in front of each other, they embraced deep and long. Galahad’s drying tears rubbed off entirely on Lancelot’s shirt as he briefly burrowed his face into his father’s shoulder. When they let go, they held each other’s hands and looked at each other, smiling more genuinely than either had ever seen from the other.

“I love you as the water loves the shore,” Lancelot said.

“I love you as well, father, more than anyone but God.”

They sat awake for awhile longer, speaking of idle things and watching the stars, taking turns telling the stories of the constellations. Eventually, Galahad fell asleep, and Lancelot sang to him softly; a strange song, one the Lady of the Lake had sung to him as a child. It was in a language Lancelot could not usually understand, but the words and melodies fell from his lips like honey from a spoon.

At sunrise, Bors and Percival awoke to find their companions asleep next to an ashen fire pit. Bors sighed and started searching for breakfast and preparing his horse.

“Would you wake them? They look like the dead,” Bors said.

“I’m going to wait a few minutes, Bors,” Percival said, smiling and sitting next to Galahad, whose expression was more contented than Percival had ever seen it.

“They need the rest, and we have all the time in the world.”


End file.
